


Under Control

by introductory



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Author's Favorite, Desperation, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Omorashi, Quasiplatonic Pissing, UST, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-08 09:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12861366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductory/pseuds/introductory
Summary: Noct lifts his unstained hand, looks down; looks back at Ignis, his mouth slightly open, and in the moment their eyes meet Ignis knows, without a single solitary doubt, that Noct has figured it out. "Ignis," he says, eyes widening slowly, and Ignis has never before in his life wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole as he does now.[Desperation/wetting/eventual assisted urination butnowatersports kink or deliberate sexual contact.]





	Under Control

**Author's Note:**

> **a:** im screamin this fic is so long now  
>  **a:** its not even porn with plot  
>  **a:** now its just regular ignoct fic, but also w piss  
>  **a:** HOW DID IT END UP LIKE THIS  
>  **a:** IT WAS ONLY PISS
> 
> For [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7772206) on the kink meme, which asked for Ignis/any + omorashi. ~~Sorry it's short, but if I let it grow into a monster it was never gonna ever get done.~~ IT'S A MONSTER BUT I DID IT ANYWAY
> 
> Thanks to [Ash](http://ittybittybiddy.tumblr.com/) for reading through the combat parts bc I know fuck-all about the actual gameplay and to her and [Lita](http://marmolita.tumblr.com) for letting me whine at them about this fic running roughshod over the rest of my 294082167 other WIPs.

Splitting up is Noct's idea, one the rest of them initially fight him on but agree to in the end. It's been several days since they saw their first reapertail; they're familiar enough now with wild Lucian fauna to dispatch them handily and make it back to Longwythe no worse for wear. Noct's argument they'll cover more ground this way is compelling if admittedly worrisome, but they _do_ need the gil and none of them are particularly keen on walking all the way to Galdin. Once that's decided, Ignis and Gladio argue further on which of them should accompany  Noct -- though Prompto's proven himself handily in battle neither of them is letting those two run off on their own -- only to be cut short by Noct warping off into the wilderness and leaving Ignis to catch up. 

They make a remarkably successful day of it: Noct might not be as physically attuned with Ignis as he is with Gladio, but their abilities complement each other perfectly and what they lack in joint formal training they more than make up for with intuition. Noct barely need call for him before Ignis is readying a flask or curative, or shooting a spray of daggers for Noct to follow up with his warpstrike. They must necessarily be more selective with their targets, but with careful planning they're able to take down three of the required dualhorn in no time at all.

On the tail of the fourth, it occurs to Ignis that this is the first extended period of time he's spent alone with Noct since leaving Insomnia, the occasional campground breakfast aside. Their companionable silence, devoid of meaningless chatter or facetious argument, is more than welcome, as is the way their arms brush as they walk side-by-side. Ignis is reminded of the walks they'd taken around the Citadel as children, Noct's hand in his as they explored its winding corridors and secret passageways; and then later as adolescents, sneaking out to the countryside to watch the stars. 

It's rather nice. Ignis bumps Noct's shoulder, and smiles inwardly when Noct bumps back.

"I wonder how they're doing," Noct says eventually, after they've been walking through the desert for a half-hour without encountering a single other creature. "I haven't heard from Prompto all day. Do you think they ran into something they can't handle?"

"Text them," Ignis says, preoccupied with the map the tipster gave them. If he's reading it correctly, they should be in sight of Longwythe Peak, yet the landscape ahead of them is a bare stretch of dry earth. He shifts the paper-wrapped package of dualhorn meat under his arm and flips the map upside-down. "It may be helpful to figure out where we are in relation to them. Perhaps they've even managed to complete the quota by now."

"Prom isn't responding," Noct mutters. "I'll try Gla -- _look out!_ "

Something rams into Ignis from behind, blindingly forceful; he barely identifies it as an anak, bellowing in panic, before he feels his body being tossed through the air as if it weighs nothing. He lands hard on his side, the pain radiating in sharp waves that only intensify when he tries to sit up, casting about for his glasses in vain. There's a wet sensation leaching into the front of his trousers, and when he looks down, vision blurry and ears ringing, his heart stops.

His entire front is drenched in red. Oh, gods, he's going to bleed out right here in front of his prince and it'll have all been his own fault. What an idiotic way to go, blindsided by an anak of all things --

Then Ignis's frontal lobe catches up with the rest of his nervous system. _The meat_ , it scolds him, pointing out the paper-wrapped package lying a few meters away. _That's where the blood is from. Get a hold of yourself, for goodness's sake, and help Noct._

When Ignis looks back it's fairly obvious Noct doesn't need any help routing the frightened calf, and eventually it trots back in the direction whence it came. It's small comfort. Ignis's hands move as slowly as his mind, trembling, as he brings them up to inspect his abdomen -- but he doesn't feel the hot ropes of his intestines nor smell the rank coppery tang of exposed viscera. Aside from the strange wetness, in fact, he seems to be intact. 

The relief lasts only momentarily before his brain, selecting and disregarding alternate explanations in rapid succession, arrives at the horrifying truth: the liquid spreading along the front of his trousers is not blood but urine, and he -- Ignis Scientia, royal attendant, Crownsguard, advisor to the throne -- has just wet himself like a child.

It's an eminently ludicrous thought, but for a brief moment Ignis wishes he _were_ bleeding out instead.

"Ignis! You okay?!" And right on cue there's Noct, dashing to Ignis's side and crouching down beside him, nimble hands seeking out his injuries. Any other day Ignis would be grateful for Noct's concern and attention, the brush of those hands over his body, but not _now_ , damn it; not when his condition's like this --

"I'm fine, Noct. Are you?"

"Me?!" When Ignis tries to sit up, Noct presses him back down onto the dirt. " _You're_ the one covered in blood!" 

His hands flit over Ignis's abdomen, alternately delicate and rough; Ignis can tell he's panicking, and his first instinct is to touch Noct's forehead and smooth down his unruly hair, make soothing noises until his distress subsides. It won't work here, however, so Ignis injects as much composure into his voice as possible and schools his expression into a semblance of calm. "The blood is from the meat," he says, pointing over his shoulder at their bounty. " _I_ am fine. Please, if you could find my glasses, I'm afraid I'm somewhat blind at the moment." 

Noct fumbles around on the ground behind him until he finds Ignis's glasses, and Ignis uses the opportunity to take stock of his situation. Lucky enough that the climate in Leide has forced Ignis to hydrate almost constantly: it seems to be little more than water soaking his trousers, odorless and clear. Perhaps he can quickly summon up sagefire, just enough to dry off his trousers; Noct will notice, of course, but at least it'll be over and done.

"Here," says Noct, handing Ignis the glasses, and before Ignis can stop him, resumes his pat-down. Ignis attempts to wriggle away from Noct's searching hands, but it's a grave miscalculation: his palm lands on Ignis's thigh, just centimeters from his groin, square in the patch of soaked gabardine.

Ignis hears himself make a noise like a dying animal, and Noct yanks his hand back; his other reaches for a potion from the Armiger, lightning-fast, and only stops when Ignis wrenches himself to one side, out of Noct's reach. 

Gods -- he should have let Gladio go with Noct instead; he man would never let the situation spiral out of his control like this, and he has a bladder of mythril besides, but that kind of thinking is all rather pointless now, when Noct is staring at Ignis with confusion writ across his face. Noct lifts his unstained hand, looks down; looks back at Ignis, his mouth slightly open, and in the moment their eyes meet Ignis knows, without a single solitary doubt, that Noct has figured it out.

"Ignis," he says, eyes widening slowly, and Ignis has never before in his life wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole as he does now. He's never felt so humiliated, and Noct has barely even begun to react. 

"If you could, ah," starts Ignis, forcing each syllable out through clenched teeth. "Noct, please, some privacy, would you . . . "

Noct stands wordlessly and goes. There's very little Ignis can do besides dab at the wet spot with a diner napkin, decorated with Prompto's doodles, that he finds in his jacket pocket. He spares a thought for the environment before crumpling it up into a ball and tossing it into the brush; it's biodegradable, anyway, and he's not about to carry it back with him. Next he plucks a small bottle of sanitizing gel from the Armiger and cleans his hands before walking over to offer some to Noct.

"Prompto called. He says they got an extra one," Noct says, drying his hands on his jacket. If he's disgusted by having touched Ignis's bodily fluids, he doesn't give any indication. "Let's call it a day."

The return trip is awkward, to say the least. Ignis spends the majority of it walking gingerly, loathing the sensation of damp fabric against his thighs, and Noct buries his face in his phone, tapping away with barely a glance at the uneven terrain. Only when they reach the crest of the hill overlooking the rest area does Noct break the silence, saying, "You okay to go in?"

Ignis looks down at himself. There's no remaining sign of his accident, at least externally, and he nods. As for emergency laundry and a shower, dried dualhorn blood is more than excuse enough. 

"After you," he says, and follows Noct down the ridge.

 

\--

 

A week later, the two of them are fishing at Vannath. Prompto and Gladio have long taken off in search of more diverting pastimes; Noct offered magnanimously for Ignis to accompany them back to Galdin proper, but Ignis merely shook his head and produced one of Gladio's favored classical novels, dropping into the seat at the edge of the pier Prompto had vacated. 

Ignis will admit he doesn't care terribly much for fishing _qua_ fishing, which is exceedingly dull even at its most exciting; however, he greatly enjoys watching Noct fish, enjoys the moue of concentration on those shapely lips and the furrow between his brows that, when Noct hooks a catch, transform into a look of triumph fit to rival even Prompto's sunniest expression. Even lovelier is Noct's boyish eagerness when he gets Ignis to take a turn with the rod, demonstrating his practiced technique with no small amount of pride. 

After another two hours Ignis has -- to no one's surprise -- caught exactly nothing whatsoever, but Noct has hooked enough to feed the group for the next few meals and is positively brimming with satisfaction. Ignis is more than ready to return to the hotel, in dire need of a shower, a piss, a genuine bed, and most importantly a proper stove; he texts the group for one of them to get an onion chopped and some rice on the boil while Noct sets about packing up his gear.

"Finally something other than cup noodles," he says excitedly. "And I've even got enough to feed Altaïr!"

"'Altaïr'?"

"The cat," says Noct, voice suffused with affection, and Ignis forces himself to stifle a sigh. Leave it to the future king of Lucis to adopt and name a stray animal he found thousands of miles from home; it's only a matter of time before it permanently joins their party. Already Ignis is thinking about the inevitable destruction to the Regalia's interior and the resultant repair costs -- not to mention that Noct will undoubtedly insist on the cat sleeping in the tent with the four of them, Gladio's allergies be damned.

"Very well," sighs Ignis, closing his book. "A detour to see Coctura first, I suppose, and then the hotel?"

"That's the plan," Noct says. He vanishes the cooler into the Armiger and extends a hand to Ignis. "C'mon."

Ignis is aching to be out of this chair, but the second he uncrosses his legs and shifts his weight, his entire body tenses up, resistant. It's then he realizes the extent of his situation: if he moves his lower body an inch more, there's no telling what might happen. _Not again_ , he says to himself, cursing the gods and the three cans of coffee he's had since they left the hotel; the first time was bad enough, but this time they're in public, within view of the beach. If he loses control of his bladder here, he may as well just throw himself in the water and be done with it. 

_Shit_ , Ignis thinks. Breathing deeply, he gestures with the book. "Five more minutes," he says. "I've nearly finished this chapter." He isn't even particularly fond of the book -- the narrator is dull, the supporting characters one-dimensional, and the general tone of it all rather pretentious and misogynistic -- but perhaps in five minutes the urge will have dissipated and he'll be able to make it back to the hotel without incident.

Noct sits back down without protest and pulls out his phone. Ignis turns pages unseeingly, eyes skimming over the text; he knows it's best if he distracts himself, takes his mind off the sensation, but he suspects not even the most engrossing of storylines could draw his awareness away from the heavy fullness low in his groin. 

Five minutes pass, and then a few more. Noct is absolutely terrible at hiding his boredom, but it isn't until ten minutes have gone by that he turns to Ignis and says, "So, Specs, you done with the chapter yet?" 

"Almost." _I stayed rooted to the spot for a very long time_ , says the book's narrator, mirroring Ignis; he shifts himself minutely, only to wince when the pressure reasserts itself. His eyes nearly cross with the discomfort of it. "On second thought," he says, "go on without me. I'll meet you there." 

"Why? What's wrong?" Noct's sweet face creases in concern, and Ignis curses to himself. If there's ever a time he needed Noct to be selfish, it's now -- but the boy refuses to leave him behind, even though Ignis knows he'd much rather be napping under the covers, recovering from a full afternoon of activity.

"Nothing's wrong, Noct. I'd simply like to enjoy the fresh air a little longer," Ignis says, proud of himself for how calm his voice is. He may still end up soiling himself after all, but he can bear any indignity as long as Noct isn't there to see. "Besides, it's fairly impossible to read in peace surrounded by the raucous lot of you."

He reopens his book, laying it flat in his lap, and resumes the pantomime of reading. But there's no shuffling of gear, no footsteps fading into the distance, and then a shadow falls across the page.

"Ignis?"

This is it. Ignis closes his eyes and exhales, ready to be humiliated yet again. Noct steps closer, until he's standing at Ignis's knees. 

"You can't move," says Noct, only half a question in his voice. 

Ignis shakes his head. Gods, he can feel his entire face on fire, burning under Noct's scrutiny. He may have been present for the occasional accident during Noct's childhood, may have helped Noct clean up and change into dry clothes, but that was close to fifteen years ago, and besides Noct had been recovering from a spinal injury at the time. They're no longer children; what kind of an adult has such pitiful control over their own body, such inadequate operational skills? 

He's horribly unprepared to feel Noct's hand alight on his knee, and he can't help the small gasp he makes at the touch. He opens his eyes to see Noct leaning over him, mouth set into a thin line, and Ignis's pulse skyrockets. 

"Okay," Noct says. "But if you're not at the room in ten minutes, I'm coming back to look for you."

Ignis nods. "All right," he says, shamefully, overwhelmingly grateful for his prince's generosity. It takes him two minutes to get to his feet, three to duck into a bodega and make a purchase in order to access their restroom, and another four to make it back to the hotel. When he unlocks the door, he finds the three of them sitting in the armchairs playing on their phones, the double beds strewn with luggage and dirty clothes. They all return to their game within seconds of his arrival, although Noct glances up a few more times when Ignis comes over and sets the purchased bag of lemon drops on his armrest before stepping away.

"Aw, Ignis," whines Prompto, rather predictably, "how come he gets candy and we don't?"

Gladio snorts. "'Cause he's _Noct_ , dumbass."

"More like 'cause none of you got the food ready like he asked," says Noct. Sure enough, there's the wreckage of a clumsily diced onion strewn across the counter and an overfilled pot of rice just beginning to warm on the stove; Ignis shakes his head and sighs, resigning himself to a less than perfect dinner.

When he steps back out of the kitchenette Noct looks over at him again, and he must have been rehearsing for the last ten minutes because all he says is, "How was the fresh air?"

"Lovely," Ignis answers. Noct nods and goes back to his game, seemingly satisfied, and Ignis can only hope they'll never have to speak of this again.

 

\--

 

The third time -- gods, the third time.

Ignis is half-conscious, upper body and ankles bound to a chair with ropes, arms secured behind his back with what he thinks might be tape. His mouth, too, is sealed with tape, and there's a dark cloth wrapped across his eyes and tied behind his head. By his count it's been approximately six hours since he woke up in this dusty-smelling room, head throbbing and stomach twisted with ravenous hunger. 

They're after Noct, of course. Why else would they -- whoever they are -- have taken him? How else would they know to specifically suppress Ignis's magic, cutting off all access to his weapons and curatives? He almost wishes they'd properly drugged him and knocked him out; instead all he can do is sit and wait, his arms alternately numb and burning from the strain, his mind left intact to contemplate every harrowing scenario that could possibly unfold from this juncture. 

Gladio, thank the stars, knows what's at stake: there's no way he'll allow Noct to stage a rescue, not when the entire future of Lucis is riding on his shoulders. Ignis is glad that no matter their differences Gladio has always, like him, put Noct's safety first and foremost -- surely they're on their way to Cape Caem by now, if not already there. Persuading Noct to leave him behind won't have been easy, but Ignis has the utmost faith in Gladio's perseverance, and at least a little in Noct's intrinsic sense of duty.

Being the one left behind, however, is turning out to be an unenviably miserable experience.

When Ignis first awoke, he briefly entertained the idea of biting through his own tongue; he could at least do his prince the service of dying here on his own terms rather than letting himself be used as bait. It's what he deserved, after all -- how could his captors have gotten the drop on him had he not been careless enough to _allow_ it? -- but quickly enough his sense of self-preservation prevailed and he abandoned the thought. 

Besides, his captors will likely be back to finish him off when they realize Noct won't be coming. They haven't spoken to him directly, but from accented snatches of conversation he can tell they're from northern Cleigne, likely around Vesperpool; although he can't understand their particular argot, he recognizes the inflections from his geopolitical lessons. How this information is going to get to the Marshal and the Crownsguard is a worry for later, but if Lucian terrorists have acquired magic-suppressing biotechnology from Niflheim, it's imperative that Ignis gather as much information on them as he can, while he can.

He spends the next hour, give or take, idly daydreaming of his childhood: safe memories, worn and creased with time. He's thinking of his pitiful early attempts at the piano, his mother's hands guiding his over the keys, when loud percussive sounds begin to echo from above him: footsteps and the report of illegal firearms, and his heart leaps in his chest as he strains to hear, hoping against all hope --

\-- and _there:_ the faint smell of electricity in the air, the characteristic sonic crackle of a warp that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Noct is _here_ , and so are the others -- Ignis can pick out the particular quality of Prompto's overpressure rounds, the roars Gladio looses as he cleaves foes limb from limb. 

Soon enough, the sounds of battle come to an end. They're replaced by the clamor of voices and the heavy thumping of boots. _Ignis? Ignis!_ they call out; muffled by the tape Ignis can do little more than groan and wriggle around, letting the chair's feet bang against the floor. 

He isn't sure how long it takes before someone flings open the door, flooding the room with sound and light that he can see even through heavy cloth. "Down here!" yells Gladio. "Noct, found him!"

And before Ignis can react Noct is warping to kneel in front of him, disheveled and distraught. " _Ignis!_ " he cries out, hands frantic against Ignis's face; he removes the tape and Ignis gulps in a lungful of stale air, heavy with the taste of dust. Noct's fingers make quick work of the blindfold, freeing Ignis to blink into what he now sees is a basement, contents obscured by Noct's face; his eyes are wet and Ignis blinks again, finds that his own are as well. 

"Noct," he breathes. "You stupid, foolish boy."

"Ignis -- "

"You absolute bloody _idiot_." His voice is horribly unsteady, and he knows he ought to be more grateful, but this abject dereliction of duty cannot go without rebuke. "I cannot believe you would risk your  life -- your _kingdom --_ just to rescue me." 

Noct just blinks, slowly, and then a strangled laugh comes out of his throat. "If I'd known you were gonna tear me a new one," he says, "I would've kept the tape on." His watery voice betrays his emotions, though, and Ignis swallows the rest of his lecture. He can save it for later.

"Hey!" calls Prompto, clattering halfway down the stairs. "Ignis, you okay? How's he looking, Noct?"

"I'm all right," Ignis says, careful not to shout directly in Noct's ear as he tackles the ropes binding Ignis to the chair, slicing away with swift precision. "No lasting damage."

"Prom, help Gladio secure the upstairs. We'll be right there," Noct says, and Prompto goes without another word. To Ignis, more softly, " _Are_ you all right?"

Ignis sucks in a breath. "They injected me with something -- I can't feel your magic, nor access the Armiger." Speaking the words aloud reignites the panic inside his chest: what if the disconnect is permanent? Will he never feel that heady thrum of the Crystal's magic ever again? Can he even still be useful to Lucis, to Noct, without that power? He can hardly bear to think about it. 

"I know. I felt it," says Noct. He blows a lock of hair out of his face as he kneels on the dirty basement floor. "Or -- I stopped feeling you, I guess. It's why it took us so long to find you. But I can sort of feel you now -- whatever it was must be wearing off." He frees Ignis from the final set of ropes and rises, lifting Ignis gently by the elbow. "Do you need a potion? An elixir?"

"They barely laid a hand on me," Ignis says. "Though I _am_ starving, and I doubt I'll be playing tennis any time soon." 

Standing after nine hours feels wonderful, luxurious, and he's never been happier to be on his feet. But before Noct can get to the tape on his wrists, the vague press of his bladder, tolerable until now, resolves itself into an immediate urgency, and Ignis can barely stifle a groan. "If you could free my hands quickly, please," he says, in his most authoritative voice, "and then rejoin the others, I'll be with you all shortly." 

Most people mistake Noct for lazy or oblivious, but Ignis has been on the receiving end of that eerie perceptiveness often enough to know there's no way Noct will mistake the excuse. _Oh_ , mouths Noct, and then Ignis falters, because Noct is looking up at him with an expression he can't read at all, can't recall ever seeing in their sixteen shared years. 

Ignis looks away; it unsettles him not to know what's going on in Noct's head, but more importantly he's got to take care of this one way or another, and he'd rather not do it in front of his king. "Noct, please," he says, turning sideways to offer his bound wrists. "The sooner the better."

Noct doesn't move to cut the tape. What he does instead is send the dagger back into the Armiger, and Ignis feels the blood draining from his face.

"Noct, _please_." He feels almost as if he's begging. He doesn't understand why Noct isn't moving: does  he -- does he _want_ Ignis to wet himself? Is this his comeuppance for letting himself be captured and wasting almost a full day's worth of travel? Is he testing Ignis's willpower? For what  purpose --

Noct bites his bottom lip, so hard that his teeth leave an imprint.

"Stop me if you don't want my help," he says, and then his hands are at Ignis's waist, slowly unbuckling his belt and drawing the leather through the buckle. Ignis feels like he might spontaneously combust, like there's sagefire rushing through his blood instead of from his fingers. This can't be happening; his captors must have drugged him after all --

"Noct," he says, trying and failing to hide a full-body shudder. "What -- "

"I'm taking care of you," Noct says gravely. Part of Ignis's brain points out that this can hardly be the case; all Noct needed to do is cut the damned tape. A much simpler solution, but instead Noct is unzipping Ignis's trousers, skirting his fingers under the waistband of Ignis's underwear, and all semblance of rational thought immediately flees.

At the first touch of Noct's hand to his penis, Ignis sucks in a breath; his hand is dry, slightly rough, hotter than the sun. He draws Ignis fully out of his clothes, and Ignis can only think of all the times he's yearned for this forbidden contact, only under vastly different circumstances. Noct moves around to Ignis's side, body bracketing him protectively, and angles the two of them away from the stairs.

"It's okay, Specs," Noct says gently, left hand heavy against Ignis's shoulderblade. "I've got you."

Letting go is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult thing Ignis has ever done in his life. The sensation is very nearly orgasmic, a half-day's worth of urine draining from his body to puddle on the floor, dark and acrid from dehydration. He lets his eyes fall closed, hears a low moan escape from between his teeth. His entire body sags in Noct's arms afterwards, shivers running through him as his bladder adjusts to its newfound emptiness.

"You okay?"

Ignis tips his head back against Noct's shoulder; he's allowed the contact, he supposes, seeing as Noctis's hand still remains loosely curled around his penis. "Yes," he says. "Thank you, Noct."

"You're welcome," says Noct. He tucks Ignis back into his underwear then comes back around to face him, does up his zipper, refastens his belt. The actions are strangely tender, like undressing a lover in reverse, and Ignis thinks, hazily, _you could touch me any time you wanted_.

Not that Noct ever will, of course. But were the impossible to happen, were he suddenly to _want_ , Ignis would not even think to refuse.

Noct's throwing the last wad of tape into the corner when Prompto sticks his head over the basement railing. "Hey, guys, don't mean to rush you," he says, "but the cops are here and they want our statements," and is gone just as quickly. Ignis massages his own arms, trying to get the blood flowing through them properly. His skin still tingles all over; it's true the suppressant injection is wearing off, but he knows it isn't simply the magic.

"Noct," says Ignis, and Noct obediently holds out his hand for a dollop of sanitizing gel, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. It's evident he thinks Ignis is being fussy; Ignis lets the insubordination slide, given that Noct is cooperating. "What do you propose we tell the others?" 

"The truth, I guess," Noct says with a shrug. "We'll just say you were a little . . . tied up."

Ignis can't help a quiet laugh, even as he shakes his head. "Incorrigible," he says, and Noct grins in response. Still, as he follows Noct up the stairs Ignis knows, deep in his heart, that Noct could lead him anywhere and he'd be there, unconditionally, without the slightest hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional thanks to [Amber](http://momentia.tumblr.com) for persuading me not to cut the hand sanitizer bits and for letting me talk at her about FFXV despite not knowing or caring what it is.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr if you'd like: [@getintherobot](http://getintherobot.tumblr.com).


End file.
